Not far from the site of her daughter’s suicide. Or the Buy-Rite mall, or the park where her granddaughter had been taken to be murdered. A short drive, also, to the Daneys’ house in Van Nuys. But for Barnett Malley’s escape to rural solitude, the case had tossed a narrow net. Milo got the number, spoke briefly, finished with, “Thanks, ma’am, will do.” “Off we go,” he said. “She’s surprised that I want to talk to her about Barnett, not upset. Just the opposite, she’s lonely as hell.” “You picked that up in a thirty-second conversation?” “I didn’t pick up anything,” he said. “She came right out with it. ‘I’m a lonely woman, Lieutenant. Any company would be welcome.’ ” * * * The house was a cantaloupe orange one-story ranch on a bright, hot street. The lawn was green pebbles. A garden hose coiled loosely near the front steps, maybe for watering the elephant’s ears that covered half the front wall. This sisal doormat read DJB over a heraldic crest.
